


Homecoming

by actualborealis



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-04
Updated: 2017-09-04
Packaged: 2018-12-21 04:38:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11936463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/actualborealis/pseuds/actualborealis
Summary: SEQUEL TO 'BREATH OF LIFE': You find yourself back in Winterfell following Jon Snow's victory over Ramsay Bolton.





	Homecoming

Your breath ghosted from your lips in clouded puffs, carried from you by a chilled breeze. You lifted your (E/C) hues to the beautiful, vividly red leaves of the heart tree of Winterfell. Behind you, the proud dire wolf of House Stark once again decorated the banners of the stronghold. Your fingers curled into the furs draped around your shoulders and drew them closer to your body. For the first time in a long time, you believed that the old gods listened to you. They must have heard you begging for the strength to save yourself from the clutches of Ramsay Bolton. You could only imagine that this wind cutting through your (H/C) hair was their whispered response and you shut your eyes, drinking it all in. Your last visit to the godswood had not been pleasant. There had been tears fresh on your (S/T) cheeks and blood smeared between your legs. A shudder clawed its way up your spine. You forced the memory away. Ramsay Bolton could no longer lay a single filthy finger on you, and you refused to allow him to taint your sanctuary. 

Footsteps crunched in the snow behind you, someone else's cloak dragging across the powder. Warmth radiated from the newcomer as they stood next to you. You blinked open your eyes and turned your head. Jon Snow had his dark gaze fixed on the wisened face carved into the trunk of the weirwood tree. He was already so deeply lost in thought. You searched his face for a moment, then trailed your eyes down the rest of him, (E/C) orbs coming to rest on his scraped and bruised knuckles. Your jaw tightened. That was the aftermath of his final encounter with Ramsay, still fresh in your mind. The sadist was incapable of accepting his own defeat. Even when Jon was destroying his face with his fists, the pig had the gall to smile, blood pouring from his nose all down his face. 

Despite the fact that you never wanted to see that much blood again as long as you lived, you couldn't help but feel satisfied. And perhaps a little disappointed when Jon removed himself from Ramsay.

"This isn't what I wanted for us." Jon's voice broke through your thoughts and you snapped your gaze back up to his face. He was looking at you now. You felt self-conscious under his scrutiny. He'd always been able to read you like an open book, the way no one else ever had. "It wasn't meant to be like this."

"What wasn't?" you asked softly, reaching for one of his hands, avoiding placing pressure on his raw knuckles. 

"Comin' home again." He turned his face back to the heart tree but he continued to address you. "It wasn't supposed to be traumatic."

"It's not." You'd gotten very good at lying in the last few, dismal years. The frown that etched itself across his mouth told you that you hadn't gotten good enough. "None of this is your fault, Jon. The world is not a kind place. Us Northerners should know." You tried to smile. Your lips wouldn't cooperate. 

"If I hadn't taken the Black..." His voice broke and you opened your mouth to argue with him, but he shook his head. "Let me finish, (F/N). If I hadn't taken the Black, I'd have been here for you. I could have protected you, and Rickon, and Sansa. But I let myself be consumed by pride, (F/N). I came to the Wall looking to prove myself as a man of the Night's Watch, to find a place I belonged, without realizing where I truly belonged." He squeezed your hand pointedly. 

"If you hadn't taken the Black," you said gently, "I loathe to think what might have happened to the Night's Watch. What might've happened to the Wall, to all of us. I don't think anyone would have done the things you did, sacrificed the things you did. If you hadn't taken the Black, who would protect Westeros from the army of the dead?" 

Jon looked down at you again. He knew better than to argue with you. Good. You placed a hand on his cheek, thumb rubbing against the surprisingly warm skin. He leaned into your touch slightly and you drew him down to kiss his lips, trying to convey everything you couldn't put into words. You hoped it would suffice. If the way he returned your kiss was anything to go on, it more than sufficed. After a long minute, you parted from one another, and you dropped your hand from his cheek. He lifted his head slightly to place a kiss on your forehead.

"Let's get you inside," he murmured. 

"Alright," you whispered in return. 

You turned your backs on the ancient weirwood tree, hands remaining joined. Soft footfalls in the snow alerted you to the presence of Ghost, padding behind you, jaws parted and tongue lolling out into the crisp northern air. The further you walked, the more Ghost sniffed the air, until you noticed his ears prick quite suddenly. Before you could hazard a guess as to why, the dire wolf took off at a run. You could tell there was no immediate danger from the way the beast carried himself, but you and Jon were both worried enough to follow, and quickly. He led you to the gates of the kennels. The strong scent of iron met your nostrils and you froze. Jon released your hand and approached the bars, peering inside. You took a tentative couple of steps forward but he whirled to stop you, taking you by the arms and leading you inside the castle. Whatever he'd seen, he refused to let you see it as well. 

"What? What happened? Jon, what's in there?" you demanded.

"Ramsay Bolton," he responded, though his voice rasped slightly. "What's left of him." 

"He's dead." You let that sink in completely. You thought you'd feel more upon discovering something like that, but you barely felt anything at all. Mostly you felt tired. "How... how did he..."

"His dogs." Jon refused to elaborate any further, still steering you through stone corridors with no signs of stopping, and you weren't going to stop him. Not that you _could_ , even if you wanted to. You found yourself standing in front of a door, which he reached to open, gently pushing you inside when you didn't move initially. You swept your gaze over the walls and furniture and realized these had been your chambers, when you were younger.

"You remembered," you said distantly.

"Aye." He shut the door and turned you to face him, pulling your chin up so your eyes locked. "You don't have to tell me anything until you're ready. But I want to know what Ramsay did to you." The way you tensed up at the mention of the man's name made Jon's blood boil.

"Jon, believe me," you started, and your voice cracked, "you _don't_ want to know what he did to me."

His hands cradled your face and kept you looking directly into his brown eyes. Your bottom lip trembled. It didn't escape his notice. He was prepared when you started crying, his arms wrapping around your frame and bringing you against his sturdy chest. You hated dissolving into his hold in such a manner, but there was so much going on in your head, so many feelings bubbling up beneath the surface. You didn't know how to cope by yourself.

"Yes, I do," he whispered.

There was nothing you could say or do to convince him otherwise, and you knew it. The most you could do was ask him to give you time. It was still too soon. He understood but you knew he wasn't going to forget it, no matter how much time you took to open that part of your life up to him. 

 

This wasn't the triumphant return to Winterfell that you'd hoped for when Sansa first proposed that Jon set out to reclaim their home.

Rickon was dead, you were more deeply affected than you wanted to admit, and gods only knew what Sansa was suffering. It seemed that your story, and the story of House Stark, was not the kind of tale that ended happily. If it would end at all, you thought to yourself briefly as you undressed for bed that night, dropping layers of cloth to the floor slowly. You needed to think about anything beyond the act of undressing if you were going to do this and you knew it. You hadn't disrobed in front of Jon, had wanted to keep some things to yourself - the scars that made you want to relieve your stomach of its contents every time you looked down at them. But you couldn't hide forever.

The more skin was revealed to him in the flickering candlelight, the more his heart broke. Some wounds, though minor, were still healing. And you had scars that could rival those he'd seen on the bodies of his comrades before. No one deserved to have their body battered in such a manner. Jon didn't say a word, however. He simply reached an arm out for you once you folded your clothes and left them for the morning. You crossed the floor and climbed into bed with him, settling against him, allowing his arm to wrap around you. You didn't tense. It was progress. His hand rubbed your shoulder comfortingly and you relaxed slowly against his body.

"I love you," he said after a long silence.

"I love you too." Words you hadn't exchanged in a very long time, but the intensity of the feeling never once diminished. You felt his lips press against your forehead and you shut your eyes, trying to even out your breathing. Exhaustion pulled at you but you weren't ready to sleep just yet. "Jon?"

"Mm?" 

"Your father would be proud." You rested your head against his bare chest and listened to the drumming of his heart. His grip on you tightened somewhat. Those had not been the words he was expecting to hear. He wasn't sure how to respond to them, but you didn't mind - as long as he knew, you were happy. His thumb was still rubbing circles against your skin. "... Jon?" You could hear him chuckle beneath his breath, squeezing you to tell you to go on. "We haven't really talk about what you saw out there. Beyond the Wall."

"No, we haven't," he agreed. You waited but he didn't elaborate. Your lips pulled into a frown.

"I think we ought to. Tormund told me a little bit but... the look in his eyes..." You could remember how haunted he'd seemed when trying to tell you about the White Walkers. The conversation lasted no longer than a few minutes. You wondered if that was for your own protection. "Please, Jon. I deserve to know what's coming."

"Aye." He exhaled slowly, closing his eyes. "That you do, (F/N)."

"Well?" you prompted.

"An army of the dead. That's what's coming." Jon's hold on you tightened. "The Long Night."

"Not just stories then," you said softly and he shook his head. "Do you think we can fight them?" He opened his eyes, turning his head to meet your gaze, taking particular note of your intentional use of _we_. If he could have his way, he'd pack you up and send you as far south as south went, but he knew better than to think you'd go. And if you wouldn't go, you'd need to fight. 

"Aye." He sounded like he really believed it. His conviction made hope blossom in your chest. "Aye, I think we can, if we all band together. Doesn't matter if you're a lord, a lady, a Wildling, or a commoner. Our hearts beat. We share the same enemy." You pressed a kiss to his chin gently.

"You're going to try and unite Westeros," you murmured. He nodded, tensely. 

"It's not going to be easy." Jon closed his eyes again, troubled. "And I'm not sure it's the right path to take."

"Why wouldn't it be?"

"What if my efforts are wasted on a lost cause, when they should have gone to preparing the North? What if the southerners won't fight with us? They haven't seen. They don't know." 

"We're the southerners to the Wildlings," you pointed out. "But we saw, and we know, and we'll fight. They'll come round. They have to." But you understood his worries, and shared them to a point. You pressed yourself a little closer to him. A thought struck you then and you half-smiled, a dry laugh bubbling past your lips.

"What's funny?" questioned the former Lord Commander.

"What a way to welcome us home," you mused. "The end of the world and all." 

He chuckled then as well. You both fell silent for a moment, listening to the crackling of the fireplace and the whistling of the frigid winds outside the shuttered windows. Winter was coming on swift wings now, if it wasn't already here. That worried you more than you'd admit. Confronted you with the reality that it really could be the end of the world. Everything else would be dying; you might too.

"Aye," Jon said quietly, clearly sharing your thoughts. "Welcome home."


End file.
